Archive for the 'Thomas Dolby' Tag Under 'Soundcheck' Category

Gotye kicks off his Greek Theatre debut. Photo: Armando Brown, for the Register. Click the pic for more.

Eight months ago, when a creeping, bitterly heartbroken ditty called “Somebody That I Used to Know” arrived stateside, accompanied by millions upon millions of YouTube views for its painstaking stop-motion video, only Aussiephiles and in-the-know industry types had a clue about Gotye. His name was a tiny question mark for most when it appeared around that same time in small print on this year's Coachella poster.

What is a Gotye, even the hippest people wondered? How do you pronounce it, and is it contagious?

We found out soon enough. Gotye (“Go-tee-yay,” if you still haven't learned) is a Bruges-born, Melbourne-reared multi-instrumentalist wild about distilling nuanced pop gems out of electronic gadgets, like Thomas Dolby before him. His moniker is an approximation of the French equivalent for Walter (or Wouter, Mr. De Backer's proper name) and his music is indeed infectious – particularly The Hit That Must No Longer Be Named, seeing as that instantly appealing smash has become annoyingly omnipresent and hilariously parodied. Even toddlers can recognize it from just a few opening plinks.

By Easter it was inescapable, and come Coachella it stood out as the only song seemingly every type of attendee wanted to witness live during one weekend or the other. Not surprisingly, the festival came to a screeching halt when Gotye's set began each Sunday evening, massive throngs spilling out of the Mojave tent on all sides, most people unable to hear or see much of his set. That is, until everyone got what they wanted, and tens of thousands of people started caterwauling “SOME-BAH-DEEEEE!” loud enough to be detected from space. It was even more intense at the end of the chilly, misty first weekend, particularly when guest vocalist Kimbra strolled out from the wings to deliver her verse.

April 22nd, 2012, 4:58 pm by ROBERT KINSLER, FOR THE ORANGE COUNTY REGISTER

I got to Coachella far earlier than I thought so I was able to catch most of Gardens & Villa's set at the Mojave tent on Sunday. Until today I never heard a group combine Thomas Dolby-styled '80s electronica-meets-Native American traditional flute music but it worked. "Black Hills" mixed up a dark soundscape with a driving rhythm that got early fest-goers out on the grassy dance floor.

Brooklyn-based Oberhofer carried on the high-energy approach in their set that followed. Few who had gathered to watch Gardens & Villa left the Mohave once they were introduced to Oberhofer. The quartet's direction was mostly set on fun. Lead singer Brad Oberhofer injected some real life drama into their 40-minute set when he climbed high on the stage frame to throw flowers into the screaming crowd.

Even frustrating technical problems resulting in First Aid Kit's keyboards not working properly did not dampen enthusiasm for the Swedish duo. Performing songs from both their "The Big Black & the Blue" and "the Lion's Roar," the siblings' shining harmonies and authentic '70s country folk was a joy. Highlights included the well received "Emmylou" with both Klara and Johanna Soderberg sharing lead and harmony vocals, and "The Lion's Roar" with it's dramatic end where the girls sang acapella to the sparest of notes from Johanna's acoustic guitar.

To understand what a joyful revelation OMD was Friday night at the Music Box in Hollywood -- the English synth-pop outfit's first full-blown L.A. performance in nearly 23 years, since opening for Depeche Mode at the Rose Bowl in June '88 -- it would help to first recount its relatively rapid rise and fall stateside. And forgive the self-indulgence, but it's hard to do so impartially; I can't help but view it all through my own prism.

Though my headphones were clogged in the early '80s by unlikely complements of Iron Maiden and the Clash, Rush and the Ramones, I instantly loved most of the British synth groups that emerged during that era. In retrospect, New Order, mutating out of Joy Division following Ian Curtis' suicide, and the formative Depeche Mode seemed like future titans from the start, with Gary “Cars” Numan paving the way into the mainstream. But there were scores more inspired by Bowie, Eno and especially Kraftwerk that cropped up in 1980-83.

Yaz, former Depeche dude Vince Clarke's short-lived duo with Alison Moyet (known as Yazoo at home), was among the best overall, but plenty of other sullen-looking lads with nutty haircuts and Fairlight gear delivered albums that were deeper than any chart-invading MTV-amplified novelties suggested, from Soft Cell and the Human League to Thomas Dolby and A Flock of Seagulls, whose '82 debut is far better than that much-mocked totem “I Ran (So Far Away).” (For argument's sake, let's leave Duran Duran and ABC, estimable groups whose early albums are essentials, in the New Romantic subgenre with Spandau Ballet, since those groups' sounds quickly grew more guitar-oriented.)

Then there was Orchestral Manoeuvres in the Dark, one of the daftest monikers in pop history, who sprang off the Wirral Peninsula, across the Mersey River from Liverpool.

They had no salable image to speak of -- apart from Dolby, they were the nerdiest of the bunch -- but they had a proto-electro feel that was fresh, lively, at times moodily dark like Side 2 of Low yet more often came laced with unabashedly cheerful melodies, even when the material was bittersweet.